Intensity is the name of the game but you also need to train well to avoid injury and be progressive too.
This means lifting heavier over time, while remaining injury free for long enough to achieve consistent progress. A A  i??*Empty Bowl was a small, non-profit press dedicated to publishing books and periodicals that reflect the visions and concerns of Pacific Rim communities, biological and cultural features of distinct regions, and the interdependence of all life along the Pacific Rim. When we weren't working in mud, when we weren't covered in it, we were holed up in big green Army tents, smelly like the back of the truck, to dry out, keep warm, cook a little stew for dinner, or make cheese sandwiches without leaving thumb prints, lie back and read. Sometime during those months, Bob and I came up with the idea of publishing a poetry magazine for the Pacific Northwest. One of the last flyers printed in that building was a statement written and handset by Grant Logg to protest a proposed Kaiser plant in Port Townsend.
Our magazine was going to be printed on one of those letterpress machines, and Bob and I were going to take a month or so of our own time surviving on unemployment checks to handset each page. Although by the second issue, in 1978, Bob was no longer interested in continuing with the project, he put up no resistance when I adopted the Empty Bowl name, as if in a spirit of shared ownership. Put out by Planet Drum, this rather formal document presented us, some for the first time, with the idea of a continent divided only by recognizable natural boundaries. Both issues quickly sold out at $2.00 each and Empty Bowl's loose knit group of editors and friends fell back into meetings, reading and discussion.
Composed mainly of people fresh from what we saw as victory in the pullout from Vietnam, the activists in the movement may, for a short time at the beginning, have harbored the belief thatA  protests, pamphlets, books, lectures, and news articles could in fact bring about a halt to the production and proliferation of the Trident Nuclear Submarine System, or even the production and shipment of weapons grade material, which brought on massive protests against the so-called White Train.
While producing the first issue of Dalmo'ma, I attended, at one of Centrum's first summer writing programs, a workshop led by Kenneth Rexroth.
Yet, because Empty Bowl was so profoundly committed to Our Place, were we deceived into thinking that the Northwest native, Gary Snyder, was a Northwest Poet?
Digging For Roots: Dalmo'ma 5 alluded to the de Angulo quote in its title, but did not use it in the frontispiece. Working The Woods is one of the few books, perhaps the only such book, to portray the lives and experiences of treeplanters. The last issue in the series was published in 1992 and called Shadows of Our Ancestors, Readings In the History of Klallam-White Relations, Dalmo'ma VIII. We were a cooperative with a collective editorship, if such terms of a relationship aren't mutually exclusive.
Jody Aliesan's book Desire (1985) and my own, The Straits (1983), were continuations of Empty Bowl's opposition to militarist experimentation; they were anti-Trident and firmly opposed to a nuclear civilization.
Yet other books, Here Among The Sacrificed (1984) by Finn Wilcox and Psyche Drives The Coast (1990) by Sharon Doubiago, Untold Stories (1990) by Bill Slaughter, and The Basin (1988) by Mike O'Connor expanded for us the boundaries of our region, taught us something of what it was like to be an outsider, even an outcast.
Here Among The Sacrificed was published with a grant from the Washington State Arts Commission, although the grant covered only half the cost. The editors of The Dalmo'ma Anthology in 1982 were: Jerry Gorsline, Michael O'Connor, David Romtvedt, Tom Jay, Sharon Doubiago, Finn Wilcox, Tree Swensen, Tim McNulty, Michael Daley, Beverlee Joesten, and Steve R. Finn Wilcox, Pat Fitzgerald and Jerry Gorsline ran Empty Bowl for its fourteen years, disbanding the nonprofit and dispersing the unsold books in 1998. A A  *Empty Bowl was a small, non-profit press dedicated to publishing books and periodicals that reflect the visions and concerns of Pacific Rim communities, biological and cultural features of distinct regions, and the interdependence of all life along the Pacific Rim. Bob Blair and I shared a tent big enough for our cots, boxes of supplies and books stuffed underneath, a small round airtight wood stove, and a couple of lamps.
Lehman reported that he was captured by the apache indians in 1870 when he was 11 years old and again later by the comanche indians.
Lehman was later taken by the comanches and adopted into their tribe and remained with the comanches until the United states government put them on a reservation in oklahoma.
When Lehman was with the Apache tribe, he heard the apaches talk about a battle in 1732 at Bandera Pass.
Lehman told of a battle at bandera pass in 1841 which was also recorded in Wikipedia (the online encyclopediC) a€?battle of Bandera Passa€?.
Lehman reported that after the battle with the Texas Rangers the comanches named the town of bandera.
The town of bandera, Texas was founded in 1853 by Charles De Montel, john james and John Herndon. In 1856 after Bandera County was created, the first commissioners court was held on January 26th. John James was born in 1819 in Gorleston Suffolk, England while his parents were visiting England.
In 1851 James married Annie Milby, daughter of William Polk MILBY of Maryland, who came to indianola, texas in 1840.
On August 27, 1839, Herndon married Barbara Makall Wilkinson Calvit, the only daughter of Alexander Calvit, and the heir to the Calvit sugar plantation in Brazoria County, texas.
It is believed that montel and james recruited Herndon to help finance the development of the town of Bandera.
In 1852, a venture into the Texas hill country brought explorer and surveyor Charles de montel to an area now called bandera county.
Forget boring suspension bridges or arched overpasses, an ambitious group of architects are planning on building one of the world's largest man-made sine waves to cross a river in China.
The massive, undulating design, destined to act as a pedestrian footbridge over the Dragon King Harbour River, is the product of NEXT Architects. China has a reputation for eye-catching feats of construction, so this impossible bridge shouldn't be all that surprising. A special note of thanks to James Poling, the author of Beavers, Their Extraordinary Lives and Curious History, which facts I used for realism and authenticity in the writing of this story.
Dear reader, while this story is absolutely untrue I make no apologies, for in the imagination of the heart and at the heart of imagination everything is possible and anything could be.
Years ago, even before the Indian had set foot in America, there lived a colony of beavers on the banks of a tributary of the Mattawamkeag River in upper Maine. The beaver colony was neither large nor small, having three families and ten members, and like all beaver they worked very hard to dam the small river. Using his tail as a stool on which he could sit upright, Dooro gripped the trunk in his forepaws and began chewing the bark of the six-inch willow sapling, dropping chips as he worked. It was only after most of the ducks had left the pond and Dooro had begun fortifying his lodge with mud, that he thought to question Miena about it. The truth is that no matter how noble or terrible our intent, we must face the consequences of our actions. They fell into one another's furry arms, caring not about the how or why, but embracing and tumbling over and over with joy. As Shaun Stafford WBFF Pro champion bodybuilder says, ‘It still amazes me how few people train hard.
Not only will this unlock the door to lifting heavier, it will also make sure that you build muscle over the whole range of motion and avoid hard-to-unpick imbalances.
Please check with your GP before embarking on exercise or nutrition regimes for the first time. This was 1975, from November or December to April or May of '76, the Bicentennial year, Greyhound buses all over town. The rest of the crew slept in tents except for those who'd done it once before; they were in homemade campers mounted on their decrepit pickups. Bob had just acquired a Chandler-Price platen press, which he'd installed in a second floor office of the Taylor Building in Port Townsend. The day after Kaiser decided not to build, Jim's brother, a millionaire in Seattle, had us kicked out of the building, and some of those big Chandler-Price printing presses grew feet and walked out with us.
We had enough material from many fine writers throughout the Northwest to print, for the Fourth of July, 1976, the first issue of Dalmo'ma.
We set type in that sunny room in the Taylor Building for a few weeks, and printed stacks of several sheets of the little book before I thought to ask the name of the press. He said once that he'd tried writing poetry and found it easy and didn't want to do it anymore. The first time I heard them was when I met Jerry Gorsline and Linn House, now known as Freeman.
Throughout the book, Puget Sound Salishan calendar terms set the poems and translations in specific seasonal turns.
The three or four white-haired men and women standing in front of Skagit County Court House today or King County Courthouse and other prominent locations across the country are a more emphatic pronouncement against the continuing military build-up. Jerry Gorsline published an interview with a young Buddhist monk who, along with a small group of craftsmen monks from Japan, was building a Temple on Ground Zero. He had a great deal to say about publishing during that week, as well as writing and the influences a beginning writer could best profit from. In hindsight her criticism is justified, yet at the time, we found it ludicrousA  how could we not combine all these themes? Was he a Californian Poet because he lived there, and wrote so much about his community's having claimed that place? It also examines the neglect of watershed management and how the status of the Pacific Northwest as a resource colony for timber and fish has lead to the losses of various species and to accidents, results of corporate decisions or the impact of the Trident Nuclear Submarine System in our waters. Edited and with commentaries by Jerry Gorsline, it is monumental in the scope of Empty Bowl's vision. One gives up the long-awaited approval of some venerable editor, perhaps because the manuscript itself has become so compelling both to the author and to many readers. Judith Roche's Ghosts (1985), Susan Goldwitz's Dreams Of The Hand (1985), Mary Lou Sanelli's Lineage (1985), Bill Ransom's The Single Man Looks At Winter (1983), and Tim McNulty's Tundra Songs (1982), connected us with Alaska, or portrayed the Northwest as wilderness at peace, a civilization of humans who fail easily, and have the victory of recognizing that. Finn Wilcox's book is a collection of haunting poems and captivating stories about his travels on freight trains, accompanied by the startling and beautiful photos of Steve R. While we were in the midst of publication, I returned to the East Coast to spend some time with my family. They were filling orders, although fewer and fewer, for years after the books were published. Bringing three individual, swirling lanes to the picturesque landscape of Changsha, the rendering won an international competition associated with a new public park in the area.
It has been said that the world was created in six days and on the seventh day God rested having created all manner of beast and then man. Semi-mountainous, it was a beautiful place with willow, elm and pine trees and plants such as fern and duckweed. Although the beavers took occasional breaks, usually for not more than half an hour, one beaver relished sitting at the water's edge deep in thought. He looked up to see four mallard ducks attacking a smaller one that limped, chasing her from the water onto the bank near him. This was partly because the other ducks left her alone when she was with him and partly because he was so happy to see her. She paddled beside him as he swam gracefully and powerfully closing his forepaws into fists and carrying them close to his chest as he propelled himself forward with webbed hind feet, using his tail as a rudder. She was at home in the water, her feathers providing perfect insulation, and now that she didn't have to worry about other ducks chasing her she could relax and enjoy the surroundings. Because his short powerful legs made him slow and awkward, he was not graceful on land as he had been in the water, Miena, too, did not glide along but walked with a gimpy waddle. He ferried the branches and trunk sections to the dam and with dexterous forefeet and strong jaws pushed, pulled and wove them into the tangled structure.
The beaver had cut down, sectioned and transported two trees to the dam before deciding it was time for a morning break. He had outer ears he could fold shut and flaps of skin in his nose he could close to keep water out.
Pushing against the walls with her webbed toes, she sought to swim faster but only stirred up mud, twigs and debris that clouded the passageway.
They continued to meet and talk every day, at least for a while, as he was busier than ever. Besides the coot and merganser ducks with their ducklings, three of the mallard couples were showing off their new broods. After passing by a pair of ducks also giving rides to their ducklings, they came right up to Miena and Dooro. His forepaws with their five toes and strong claws were particularly dexterous, and with the support of his paddle-like tail he could walk on his hind legs underwater. She was impressed that animals so young would be so industrious, but eventually their playfulness got the better of them.
Immediately other loud pops followed, some fainter, as distant beavers sounded the alarm with their tails.

All the beavers had disappeared and the ducks were either in the trees or had paddled to a safe distance. With increased cloud cover and colder weather the ducks appeared nervous, watching the sky and looking southward. He was patting the mud carefully onto the dome of his lodge, a master plasterer striving to cover every bit of exposed surface.
With even beavers disappearing into their lodges for the winter, Dooro was truly alarmed and determined to straighten it out one way or another.
He even suggested to Miena that she dive into the pond before it was frozen over so she could seek shelter in his beaver lodge. She was well aware of how dearly Dooro loved to learn of new things, so she searched her mind for such an item and found it.
But while Miena began to relax and enjoy herself, Dooro couldn't ignore a persistent feeling of doom. Aiera's left back leg came within reach and he bit down as hard as he had ever chomped a willow tree.
But so strong and pure was Dooro and Miena's friendship that it had not gone unnoticed by the Creator. History everywhere, the tourist or antique hunter became its medium; in storefront windows sat old rockers, all shined up, beds and tables, date next to the price. A lot of time seems to have been taken up sitting in woolen longjohns, learning more efficient ways to dry our clothes. Jim just kept framing, dismantling and reframing with new beams, the same vestibule staircase.
The title was a Pit River tribal place name I found in Jerry Gorsline's copy of Indians In Overalls by Jaime de Angulo.A  It mattered that the name for the publication should be about our own placeA  and at that time we meant, almost exclusively, too narrowly, the Olympic Peninsula. We were looking for roots we knew we never had, but that someone had, and places we loved still contained. Bob or I usually asked a question by way of introducing a topic we needed to discuss, and so with this.
These two pieces of writing constitute the largest portion of prose in the first two issues. There were Aztec and Sioux translations within the few pages of this issue, and in both the first and second issues the poetry and stories of such, now notable, writers as Tim McNulty, William Stafford, Kim Stafford, Bill Ransom, Sam Hamill, Barry Lopez, Jim Dodge, John Haines and Jim Heynen. Two issues of a pamphlet series, Firecrackers, went out, and a few small postcard size poems.
The obligation to provide witness to warmongers and governments is the lasting purpose of a political movement. But the statement I really remember applied to me at the time because Dalmo'ma was conceived of as the first issue of a quarterly.
In other parts of the country, I imagine people from around here are called Seattle Poets by way of identifying an address or an influence suggested by movie settings, coffee companies, mountains & rivers, logging. Just as Stephen Duck, who protested the advent of the Industrial Revolution with proletariat poetry that predates Marxism, and John Clare from the same era, who with maddening ferocity describes down to the nose hairs every badger in sight, just as they and centuries of local poets offered an identification with a kind of grove, or a sacred place, so did Empty Bowl.
In 1986 we published two issues both funded by a grant from the Washington State Arts Commission's dwindling arts fund. The collection addresses eloquently and precisely the themes fundamental to our publications: regional, environmental, native and historic values override the general, vague, inexact blunders of political and academic systems. Although all such publications can be tarred as VanityA  or Subsidy books, we were not inviting authors to submit based on their bank accounts, or their benefactors', but because their work was significant to many of us in the editorial committee, because the work struck us as powerful interpretations of our human involvement with this region. Without it the literature from any given area will be left up to the press that attracts the most grant support.
The misfortune of such a development is the diminishing role of an editor in subsidy presses. This is an especially significant theme of Jim Bodeen's Whole Houses Shaking (1993), a series of poems addressing the cancer treatment and death of his father, the bonds of his family, the stories and histories we're forever running up against, forever avoiding.
By 1984 the editors were Tim McNulty, Jerry Gorsline, Tom Jay, Finn Wilcox, Mike O'Connor, Pat Fitzgerald and Michael Daley.
Despite our minimal advertisement, few reviews of our books, and increasing disillusionment over the tough work of distribution, orders for Empty Bowl books came steadily from book stores, distributors, collectors and readers of poetry and literature throughout the world. All creations copyright of the creators.Minecraft is copyright Mojang AB and is not affiliated with this site. The banks of the tributary were dotted with meadows of wild grass created by the beavers in the cutting of trees to build their dam. He listened in rapt wonder as the duck talked on about seals, dolphins, water spouts and hurricanes.
They would discuss whatever came to mind, which could be about some difference between ducks and beavers, or the relative threat of such enemies as bear and cougar, or even where they might end up if they flew or swam in one direction forever.
She loved to paddle against the soft liquid resistance and smell the crisp snap of spring air with its hints of floral bouquet. Dooro passed half a dozen trees hesitating momentarily before stopping at the seventh tree to sniff the bark and open his mouth. She found eight olive-green eggs nestled between soft brown feathers and wondered where the parents were. Taking one last bite, Dooro slapped his tail on the ground setting off distant thumps and pistol-like pops as other beavers followed suit on ground and water.
Occasionally another beaver helped him work a particularly large trunk section over the top and rest it at an angle, further buttressing the back of the dam.
His oversized lungs allowed him to submerge for as long as fifteen minutes and to swim underwater half a mile. The snow pack was melting and the waters of the tributary swelled, forcing the beaver colony to abandon their lodges, if only temporarily. Except for their more subdued coloring, Miena thought all the ducklings were adorable miniatures of their parents. The beaver kits immediately abandoned their mother and began leaping onto Dooro and then tumbling over one another. That instead of one big tree being used as a foundation, many saplings and limbs of older trees heavy with brush go into the construction. Arms full, Dooro actually walked up the side of the eight-foot dam to the surface where he began shoving mud into place with paws and snout. Over Dooro's strenuous objections Miena went along with it, looking decidedly waterlogged, or rather, beaver-logged. Quack-wack-wack." Half flying, half pushing the water with her feet she rushed to put herself between the kit and Aiera. Aiera's tongue drooled from unanticipated loss and unable to accept defeat, he actually began swimming towards the ducks at the center of the pond. It was a time of abundance for beaver and duck alike because they could now dine on a wide selection of plants.
Their quacking became more frequent and if any one of them took flight, the others watched mesmerized until it had landed.
Because the pond was too deep to freeze all the way to the bottom, this would be their food through the winter. The mud the beavers had so carefully applied to their lodges became hard as cement and the pond began to freeze over starting at the shoreline. But this would have meant using the tunnel passageway and Dooro only needed to see the terror in her eyes to know that answer. She had fallen asleep in one of the last clear patches of water and during the night snow and ice had sealed it, trapping her feet. Already he could hear Aiera's growling as the wolf tore and scratched at the freshly packed mud and branches. But we escaped most of that for those four or five months we worked on the clear- cuts planting trees.
A system of lines ranged out from the safest point near the stove, clothes pins bearing the weight of socks and underwear. I had helped set type with Bob, Rod Freeman, and Kevin Quigley when they published a collection of poetry and art in 1973 known as The Wale.
The Pit River people lived in Northern California which was beyond the southern boundary of the region where we found ourselves.
That places could be structured as natural rather than political systems seemed a more appropriate form of anarchy than measures then being suggested in cities.
Empty Bowl began the first Dalmo'ma Anthology by collecting significant documents of the Northwest Anti-Trident movement and publishing them. When they had completed the Temple, built on property adjoining the Bangor Naval Base, Trident's Home Port, it was burnt to the ground by unknown arsonists.
Rexroth said, without any sarcasm, that editors who start poetry magazines, do so to publish their own poetry. It became our consensus as a group of editors meeting in one another's living rooms, that we could not criticize the government without looking at the governed. Remembering that a great deal of software originated here could suggest a Seattle Poet writes exclusively for cyber readerships. Just as Robert Frost and Virgil meditated on how the human condition thrives in the vegetative bucolic, and as Gary Snyder depicted the ghost logger visiting the demolished grove, Empty Bowl did too. It was an effort to expand our own sense of community, to demonstrate what the Sister City movement of that era was accomplishing, and to establish a relationship with environmental issues beyond our own bioregion. Grant support is dependent upon past performance, and for small press publishers this means bigger and more beautiful books by more celebrated authors.
Compared, for instance, to those graduate students or hired guns who pre-read contest submissions, one's friends may seem less objective. A month earlier I confessed to her I wanted to write an article about Central American refugees, but couldn't sustain more than thirty minutes of uninterrupted time at my mother's house. In the years that followed most us were to remain involved in less active ways, while others would replace them: Barbara Morgan, Beth Barron, Ru Kirk, and still others who I hope will forgive my bad memory. During those years they published many of the books I have already described: Working The Woods Working The Sea (1986), Shadows Of Our Ancestors (1992) and Psyche Drives The Coast (1990) by Sharon Doubiago. It was fashioned by the Creator many years later, and this is a story of how it came to be. If they kept busy with the who and what of things, he found value in the if and why of things -- for hours at a time. She had an endless supply of information, so their conversation continued for hours punctuated only by the beaver's quick dips into the water.
Even better, by accompanying Dooro she felt she was participating in something important and necessary.
But the nest did feel warm to her feet so she realized the mother duck had only recently left and would return shortly. Even Miena knew this was the beaver's version of "Timber!" an emergency signal that reverberates throughout the beaver colony telling others to seek the safety of water until they are sure no enemies have been attracted by the sounds of a falling tree.
When he dove his heartbeat slowed automatically and his body prepared to absorb what to other animals would be poisonous amounts of carbon dioxide. Sensing trouble, Dooro turned and swam back to her, pushing and guiding her back out of the tunnel with his chest and forepaws until she was into clear water. Dooro explained to Miena that this was actually a good thing because the more water the dam could hold back, the more water there would be to fill new canals and underwater plunge holes so necessary to escape enemies. She returned to the water with a gentle slap of her tail and Dooro, Miena, and the kits all followed her as far as the dam. Then branches are laid side by side in line with the direction of the current and anchored into the mud by rocks and stones, so as not to wash away.
She traveled beside the dam towards the bank, figuring to get out once she grew too tired to carry her passengers.
One of the kits dove instantly but the other kit seemed confused and was swimming towards the bank. And while the young beavers would not be independent until two years old, by the end of summer at half their adult size, they were fully capable of patching the dam or felling a tree. This was no problem for the beavers who could continue working underwater even in a completely ice-covered pond. Without acknowledging Miena who followed him, he walked to his lodge and began chewing the outer wall with its mud cement casing.
So powerful was Aiera that once he had a solid hold of the beaver's neck he shook him savagely. Dooro's attack was totally unexpected and it unnerved the wolf, who was really a coward at heart. Mysteriously, magically, wondrously, Miena and Dooro's wounds were healed -- as surely and quietly as pure love warms a frozen heart. We cooked over the wood stove our odd concoctions of carbohydrates and protein; once I nearly gagged Tim McNulty with some barely cooked grain. Copies of this book, indeed rare now, seemed to be all over Port Townsend and Seattle for about five years.

A few years later, a tunnel which originated in the basement of the Weir Building caved in one morning in the middle of Water Street halfway to Seafirst Bank, Jim blinking up into the dust. I had admired the intent of Kuksu, a magazine edited by Dale Pendell, Gary Snyder and Steve Sanfield.
I remember very little, other than the distinction between a glottal stop and a glottal click. He smoked Drum in those days when we had money, rolling each smoke meticulously so that the end product could have been mistaken for the machined sticks of committed Lucky's smokers. It included a rough map of the strife-torn Middle East, about which most of us entrenched regionalists knew utterly nothing. A roll of brown paper from the Port Townsend mill, which employed most of the town and fouled the air with pulp fumes, appeared in our office one day. Archbishop Hunthausen attended the protest of Trident at Oak Bay at the mouth of Hood Canal, also known as Twana Fjord.
At the time, I had to admit this was true, although both Bob Blair and I were committed to the work of those authors we'd invited.
In which case, does the reflection of a poet's sensory observations need to have any definable influence?
It wasn't until the following year that Empty Bowl became a nonprofit organization, and I was officially hired as editor-publisher-trainee. With these three books our group of editors was able to focus on the major themes the reviewer of The Dalmo'ma Anthology had faulted us for treating like buckshot.
Yet a response by someone who can be impartial, and who is genuinely moved by one's poetry, can be as rewarding as an acceptance into a world of academic look-alikes. My own involvement with Empty Bowl Press changed in 1985 when I moved out of Port Townsend.
They facilitated the distribution of Empty Bowl books produced by associates of the press, such as Whole Houses Shaking (1993) by Jim Bodeen, The Family Letters of Maxwell Perkins (1995) and Untold Stories (1990) A by William Slaughter.
He apologized, explaining that he needed to wet his paws or they developed cracks in the warm spring air. When he closed them it was like looking through windowpanes and he could see her with perfect clarity. She swam alongside him, passing other ducks and beavers, until they had reached the edge of the lake and turned into a narrow canal just wide enough for the beaver's body.
Dooro too returned to the canal and waited ten minutes before he got out and began dismembering the branches of the tree and chewing the trunk into pieces about three feet long. She stopped floundering and hesitated only a moment before rushing to the surface to draw in deep breaths of air. Now that the trees closest to the lake were gone they had to travel further afield, and each additional canal lined with underwater escape burrows might mean life or death. With a web of interlaced branches acting like a net, all manner of driftwood and debris are entrapped. Because of their size and underdeveloped coordination, mud melted from their grasp and they quickly discovered stealing Dooro's was an easier way to plaster.
But the mud war was self-limiting because by that time Dooro had no intentions of gathering more mud. They were having a wonderful time, drawing looks of amusement from other ducks as well as beavers. With bone-chilling fear Miena saw Aiera, the dark-gray wolf, loping along the bank in their direction. It's automatic that predators attack the weakest and Miena knew instinctively to become vulnerable.
The distant honking of geese and their flying "V" patterns was a bugle call to those with migratory instincts. If he hadn't enjoyed her company so much he might have realized, as did all the other residents of the pond, that at this time of year this was odd behavior. Dooro was accustomed to memorizing every air pocket including the ones that always formed along the shore of the pond or the one that formed at the dome of ice above the entrance to his lodge. Even with his powerful jaws and his two-inch bottom teeth honed to a knife-like edge, it wasn't easy.
In the twinkling of an eye they were transported halfway around the world to another continent, a new land with new woods and waterways. Just before first light the mice in our food supply would wake us, we'd stoke the stove, cook some sorry coffee, get back into damp rain gear, and carry charcoal-stained cheese sandwiches onto the clear-cut, hip bags filled with mudball treelings, Doug Fir, probably harvested by now for the toilet paper mills. Four or fiveA  letterpress machines were located in the back of the Weir Building, kitty-corner from Seafirst Bank and just across the street from the Town Tavern. What we were doing took some of its influence from their publication, yet the name remainedA  regional, but outside our own physical region, and paying homage to the native words and stories found in the book of a Spanish anthropologist who could never be more than an observer, despite his evident reliance on primitive ways. And being forced to admit I knew nothing about the rather odd and apparently meaningless word I'd selected for the title of our magazine, except that I liked what I thought it sounded like in my Euro-tongue's appetite for blithe colonization. Bob was steady and careful in all that he did, and painfully aware of the lack of these qualities in others. My memory, of what I'd told myself was a transition from the dual editorship toward a collective, diverged widely from his; yet despite my surprise that he'd seen it so, I could recall no conversation where the name ceased to be his property.
It seemed to me that for an issue of a magazine or an anthology to successfully evolve a theme, there must be this conception on the part of the editor that a centerpiece would state the key principles about which all other entries could revolve.
Firecrackers 1, which I edited, consisted of three poems by Tim McNulty, Tom Jay and Doug Dobyns. I wrote a description of that day when protesters got in boats to meet Trident on its maiden voyage to Bangor.
Yet we wanted our anthology to express hope, both through our writing and through visual art. An out of work treeplanter rehabilitating from an injured back, I was eligible for retraining funded by the Washington State Department of Labor and Industries for six months. The Rainshadow (1983), our first book published in Taiwan and bound in the traditional Chinese fashion included poems about China with those set near the eastern slope of the Olympics. The Empty Bowl editors made a decision, which may have been a factor in its eventual demise, to run no contests. Because we are so unsure of ourselves, perhaps, as writers in a competitive culture, it helps to approach one's own work with an astonishing authority. I had already lost the urge to design and publish books, and I was forced to admit I didn't have the stamina needed to distribute work which deserved to be read.
They arranged to place copies of many of these books into classrooms to be used as texts in college and high school courses.
The more Dooro listened the more Miena told until they had talked late into the afternoon and the trees' shadows had became fingers long and thin, and a cool breeze had sprung up. She followed him to the end, about 150 feet further, and they climbed out, he shaking his fur and she fluffing her feathers.
Certainly she was able to dive for minutes at a time, but that was under conditions where she could see her surroundings and had immediate access to the surface. Dooro explained that once the foundation is laid, to be watertight the dam needs a plaster of mud, pebbles, and grasses and that this plastering of mud must be done on the upstream side first or it will wash away.
He good-naturedly allowed it, although a lot of mud seemed to be drifting back from where it came. She began flapping one wing and bobbing spasmodically, all the while keeping up her "Quack-wack-wack," as though she was in great pain. In front of Aiera's eyes she healed instantly, flying up and away to a tree where she could safely watch his reaction. What he wasn't accustomed to doing was worrying about a duck who had no such defenses against winter's harsh elements. The feeling of bitter cold stabbed at his gums until his teeth became numb, but Dooro was single-minded in the determination to vandalize his own fortress. The Weir building was unheated, so we spent a great deal of time planning at the tavern.A  The building was being remodeled by Jim Weir, who expressed himself mainly with gestures and grunts. Immediately after the United States incinerated Hiroshima and Nagasaki, he tore a hole in the middle of his living room floor and roof, and heated the home with fire vented through that smoke hole. The three foot roll became an insurmountable problem for days until my old mentor, Grant Logg, came up to the office with his chainsaw, divided it into three neat rolls, and left. By 1982, our Anthology's commitment was to the issues themselves, and to attempting to present thoughtful arguments, compelling images and serious alternatives. Although our organization had to agree to hire me at the end of that period, we knew the chances were slim that Empty Bowl could afford an employee.
Even a regional contest can limit and stymie the body of work and the current of influence collaboration fosters.
Besides which, they did the heroic work of keeping the press afloat, and maintaining nonprofit status. ELY SHOWS THE OLD COMANCHE TRAIL INTERSECTING THE a€?TRAIL TO MISSION SAN SABAa€? BUT DOES NOT SPECIFICALLY SHOW THE PASS. And finally, the heaviest logs are added to the dam on the downstream side and pushed against it at right angles for more strength. Dooro, too, welcomed the change in menu and only occasionally ate willow or aspen, a staple during the winter months.
Miena lost her feathers, then her wings, which turned into arms, and a thick down of fur enveloped her body. Jim was always framing in walls or stairs, dismantling his work and reframing a room from a totally different plan. This was not what we've come to call a NIMBY issue, however, since the frightening power of the Trident weapons system had global reach and presented a target which would wipe out such subtargets as Seattle, Portland, Vancouver, British Columbia, and all life between. Johnson, and reproduced a triptych of paintings in black and white by the late Northwest artist, Nelson Capouilliez. It seems now to have been a shady deal, but even the treeplanters who disapproved of filing the claim for the back injury, thought their own support of the press was a significant community obligation. Collaborations should be regional, that is, the collaborators should know one another, have more in common than an exchange of writing, like bodily fluids, for money. I rented a light table from a nearby typesetting company and tried to keep my lines straight.
Dooro's nose stretched and spread until it became a bill like Miena's and his body shrank, flattened and grew more compact. Changing his mind didn't seem unusual, until we came to see the process of assembling and dismantling was chronic, and the building would never be finished. Funding for the production is the biggest burden for a small press publisher, and when the writer enters into this swamp, it may be because a publisher with integrity has found a manuscript that deserves to be published and invited the writer to help. Steve Johnson and I were on the phone every day discussing the placement of his photos, or the quality of printing. They stored the books for years in their house and their kids grew up with poets and readers coming and going to pick up or autograph copies.
It was not uncommon to see deer, raccoons, skunk and bear, although the beavers were always nervous when a bear was around.
Even with repair, he realized the protective wall of his lodge would take days to harden again. In this new land they became a new animal, an animal not quite a bird and not quite a mammal but a bit of both with a broad flat tail and fur softer than a beaver's, with a bill like a duck and "oviparous," which is to say it lays eggs. But it seems a Northwest Poet, with or without a National or Multinational Corporation's readership, besides living here, must write something that interests people from the Northwest, that somehow characterizes them and this quite unusual combination of climate conditions in which we live. He also called the printer every morning to ensure the highest quality for his duotone reproductions. They filled orders continuously, ran meetings and kept the accounts of an organization that took its name to mean both replenishment and the gift that moves.
Certainly Pound's reading of Yeats' later poems had an influence, as he did on Eliot, and many other poets of the day. They saw that the spontaneity of poetry needed to come to rest somewhere, and took on the steady methodical job of running Empty Bowl, permitting so many Northwest writers and artists a home. The function of the press was to keep a place for writers to publish works significant to the Northwest literary community. The more nebulous and loose that group became, the more apparent became Empty Bowl's purpose: to record a valuable era in the region's literary history and to represent the tradition of those who stand apart, who choose within the smaller market to act locally. From our home, and the materials at hand, we did what literature commands, we made a solid thing of words.

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